


Patched

by todisturbtheuniverse



Series: Into the Storm and Rout [11]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Tough Love, self-consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 22:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3334685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brutal fight necessitates the removal of the eyepatch. Bull isn't happy about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patched

Now and then, one of them takes a hit that could kill them.

Bull's not an exception to this; he's got scars for a reason, and he'll have plenty more by the time something big and ugly kills him. It's near the end of their assault on Griffon Wing Keep that it happens: there's blood in his eye and trickling down beneath his eyepatch, the old joint in his bad ankle aches, and they're almost done, but _almost done_ is usually the moment you don't make it.

He swings. One of the Venatori takes advantage of his blind side, and he's too slow to catch the blow. Pain blooms sharp in between his ribs; he staggers, going down to one knee; a blade flashes, barely missing his remaining eye—

"Hold on, Bull!"

The scent of Katrina's magic is in his nose, like soil soaked through in a Seheron storm. He could swear he hears the far-off rumble of thunder, and then the dagger-wielder trembles with the force of the lightning running through him. He drops dead right beside where Bull kneels, trying to get his breath back. There are three more _thumps_ , and his fellows fall, too, smoking faintly.

She's at his side instantly, tugging at his shoulder. "Sit," she says, the force of the word hiding the tremor of her hands. With a groan, he sits back, shoulders braced against the pillar at the top of the stairs, hand pressed tight to the wound. She digs frantically through her pack, provoking the soft clink of glass within; she pulls the stopper free of a flask and holds it to his mouth. He drinks, and the deep, sharp pain of a punctured lung slowly eases.

She lets out a breath of relief. "Cole, run back to Craggy Ridge and tell them we've got it, would you?" She rummages deeper in the pack. "We need to get the supply lines going straightaway. Cassandra—"

"I will stand guard," Cassandra interrupts. She looks dusty and tired, but healthy, considering. She makes for the stairs and takes up her post at the bottom; Cole is already long gone.

"You look awful," Katrina tells him in an undertone, frank and anxious all at once. "Let me see it."

He takes his hand away. The bleeding is slow now, something superficial that needs closing. She dabs the worst of the blood away with a rag dampened from her water skin and unstoppers the next vial—looks like one of Stitches' poultices. She spreads the substance over the wound, lip caught between her teeth in concentration.

"Okay, now the face," she says. "It's deep, and the blood's getting under your eyepatch—take it off."

Now that the worst of the danger has passed, she rolls her sleeves up to her elbows. Her shirt is dark with sweat, strands of hair coming free of its neat coil, skin filmed over with a sheen of dust.

"Think I'm good, boss," he says, because he can't think of anything he wants to do _less_ than take the eyepatch off. "Just dump some water over my head. Some of it'll make it under the patch."

"No," she replies, frowning. "Just take it off, Bull."

Thing is, he _never_ takes the eyepatch off.

When he's alone, sure, to clean it and the area beneath it, but not in front of people. The old wound looks a lot worse without it. People have a hard time imagining what an empty eye socket might look like; it's a big blank spot under there, not the stuff of nightmares, as long as the patch stays on.

She reaches out to touch his face, palm curved against his jaw, eyes gone soft. She doesn't flinch at the blood getting on her fingers; she doesn't even seem to notice.

"I'll do it," she says. "Trust me?"

He's nodding before he can think it through; there's only one answer for her and trust, and it's _yes_. She rinses her hands in the stream from her water skin and slips her fingers between his horn and the strap holding the patch in place.

He doesn't miss the eye much. True, his face was more symmetrical with it, and threading a needle is more or less out of the question, but he functions fine without it. He just doesn't want her to see it: the dark hollow beneath a tattered eyelid that didn't heal right, the rough scars raking through the flesh. Once she sees it, she can't _un_ see it. Her memory will burn a hole right through the patch.

He's about to reach up and stop her when the strap loosens; she pulls it from his head and sets it gently aside.

"There you are," she says, lips quirking up on one side. She looks him full in the face, and she doesn't cringe; her expression is just as relieved as it was a few moments ago. "Close your eye, will you? I'm going to get the worst of this blood off."

She upends the water skin over his head and blots at the scores the dagger left—near the base of one horn, across his nose, down his cheek. "Might sting," she warns, and then the soft burn of the poultice smears over his skin, closing the wound.

While the poultice hardens, she gently wipes the remaining water and blood from his face. She's careful, but not hesitant, around the missing eye. She is as deliberate and attentive here as she is in all things, her touch earnest and kind—like steady rain when the humidity finally breaks, like shared body heat on snowy nights, like a stifled laugh at a bad joke.

She has never once looked at him with revulsion or pity or fear; it irks him that he thought she would start now. That's his own damn fear—taking root so much easier now that the Qun is gone—but she sweeps it away like a bad dream, forgotten when dawn creeps over the horizon.

Skilled fingers check the poultice on his ribs first; it's crusted over his skin. "All right—little pinch," she says. She peels the substance away, leaving tight skin in its wake. As soon as it's off, she touches a cold hand to the seam the wound has left, numbing the leftover ache. Fingers still chilled, she strips the poultice from his face, too—and damn if it doesn't feel good with the sun beating down, her hand like ice, soothing his new skin.

She searches his face carefully when she's done, eyes narrowed as though seeking out any remaining wounds. Finally, though, she smiles, tired but genuine.

"Good as new," she declares, and leans down to brush a tender kiss right where the scars are worst, below where his eyebrow never grew back.

As if this has happened a hundred times before, she sits beside him, picking up the eyepatch and a fresh rag. "You know, it's awfully subdued compared to the rest of your gear," she comments, frowning at it as she scrubs the blood away. "Needs some color."

He rinses his hands; when he's done, she holds the clean eyepatch out to him. He takes the patch and returns it to his face, sliding the strap into place around his horn, and then reaches out and drags her into his lap; she squeaks, a little off balance until he rights her, and then his hand is in her hair, tugging her head back, and her lips are soft and yielding beneath his, her muffled hum of pleasure sneaking into his mouth.

She looks a little dazed when he pulls back, her breath quick, her blush deep. They don't have much time—he can hear the clank of the Inquisition's soldiers approaching below—so he leans down to speak instructions in her ear: "Come to my tent when the first watch changes."

Actions are better than words. If he's grateful, he'll show her.

She lets out a breathless laugh; he returns her to her feet and heaves himself up, too. Seconds later, Cassandra leads their troops up the stairs, directing them to their posts and duties. She frowns in Katrina's direction.

"You should take care of that sunburn, Inquisitor," she calls.

Katrina turns, if possible, even redder. He imagines the heat of it against him and narrows his eye up at the sun. There is plenty to do between now and nightfall, but it will pass too slowly for both of them.


End file.
